


lightning strikes twice

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Aen Hanse, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Reader-Insert, domestic life, gender neutral reader, where are my soft reader inserts where are they
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-09 05:04:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14709617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: a/n: title subject to changealsoif you read thisand know me irlyou’re morally obligedto throw me into the burning sun





	1. intimate

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: title subject to change
> 
> also  
> if you read this  
> and know me irl  
> you’re morally obliged  
> to throw me into the burning sun

 

The gaunt, harmless-looking vampire presses his lips on the nape of your neck, nibbling the skin lightly and extracting a soft gasp from you. Pinned to the bed, his chest firm against your thinly clothed back, Regis has absolute control. But he’s  _kind_ with the dynamic. He knows how easy it is to draw your submission with the lightest touch. There is no need for prickling love bites or crescent-shaped bruises (though such are not out of the question).

He sinks his arms on either side and you briefly recognize the vivid veins that race up and down his near-translucent skin. Emiel looks so fragile, yet he slots against your frame with ease and poise. Even his actions are as suave as his character. One of his hands hold the back of your head and angles your profile up to sneak a kiss.

“I think,” Regis murmurs, mouth trailing against your earlobe, “the horses can see us through the window.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Don’t mind them.”

“As you wish.” Regis shivers, bumping his nose along your shoulders and spine, reminding how he adores every inch of you. “You’re so  _warm_. And  _soft_. And--” The vampire tuts satisfactorily. “You smell  _wonderful_ , and I say this in the full confidence of not being tempted by your blood.”

He’s teasing, you know, but the lilting growl behind his words make your face warm and flushed.

You start to think,  _At least he can’t see your embarrassment_ , when Regis slides one of his hands under your cotton shirt. You try not to recoil from his cold touch, stifling a surprised cry that he mistakes as something else; the resounding snarl sends a bolt of shock through your body and you lose-- a moment-- as your mind goes  _blank_ \--

Your hands wind in his dark, silver-streaked hair as your back meets the cot and Regis’s mouth crashes against yours. His chilly, dexterous fingers cup your face as he delves into the kiss. Sharp canines seek out your bottom lip, and you can’t help but flinch.

As startlingly subtle as the onset of night, the desperation behind his lips melts into a sort of tenderness; it’s the kind reserved for dreamy nights and lazy mornings. His fingers become feather-light against your skin and hair.

“I’ll be more gentle,” he whispers, and kisses you, oh so achingly slow and hesitant.


	2. i.&ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: alternatively titled, “there were six aen hanse”  
> chapters 2-4 are canon compliant with the book series, pre-toussaint

_Tell me a story,_ you say as you brush his short locks away from his face.  
  
Regis is the type of individual who likes to be coddled, or worshipped in another’s arms, and he tilts his head back to look at you. It’d been a warm evening when he finally dragged himself away from the garden, scraped the dirt from under his nails, and crawled into bed, smelling like sage and lemon.

“What kind of story?” he asks softly. “One filled with adventure, or romance, or a bit of both? Would you like me to tell you a scary story, or one for youths?”

After thinking, you suggest,  _Tell me your story._  
  
The vampire says nothing at first.

Then he begins, and it is a tale that has neither a beginning nor an ending. However, it belongs completely, and utterly to him.

“Once upon a time, there had been a company of friends.”

It is not unusual for Regis to suddenly talk about  _aen hanse_ , or the company he once knew and loved years ago. He sees his absent friends in the waking everyday world.

* * *

He finds you in the cemetery with a quiver of arrows, a longbow, and empty glass bottles lined neatly along a flat gravestone. “Morning, Regis,” you say to him as you loose an arrow and hear it whisper through the air, striking--

\--stone and it rebounds, flying off into the surrounding wild grass. Regis stoops and picks up the arrow. “Impromptu archery practice?” he asks curiously, returning it to the other bolts.

“Call me inspired.” You lower the bow momentarily and anxiously rub the coarse finger guards on your right hand. “I keep thinking about the archer in your  _hanse_. Her story brings sorrow to me.” Your gaze tracks over to the glass bottles, glittering in the faint morning light. “You told me what she did. But what was she like?”

A mild fog rolls through the necropolis, though it fails to strike fear in your heart. Inviting a vampire to your bed had lovingly redefined some of your learned reservations about death and monsters. Regis knows this; and he reminds you, time and time again, about the strangeness of undermining a system of predator and prey with lazy morning kisses.

“Maria was--” Regis taps his lips thoughtfully, careful with his words. “Milva was exceptional. Even the elves in Brokilon knew that her character was worth more as an ally. She knew death intimately. And she knew fear, too, though it would never take permanent hold of her heart.”

You take a breath, nock an arrow, and draw your shoulders back until the striped fletching tickles your mouth. The tension in the aged bowstring threatens to break and lash a welt against your cheek, but you dare not flinch. It might tempt misfortune. Regis doesn’t look at you; perhaps he’s afraid to see the short-haired archer in your place.

“But what I remember most,” the vampire continues, “was that she was the first who sought a family among our company. She was the first who gave us this notion of being more than just brothers-in-arms.” There is incredible fondness in his voice, only overshadowed by a dull grief.

And you finally let go of the arrow.


	3. iii.&iv.

Though the sunrise had barely glanced off the town’s roof eaves, the piazza buzzes with vendors and customers. Everything imaginable was on sale: fruits and vegetables, livestock, scrap metal, and tailored clothing. But there were entertainers, too: a troupe of circus performers breathed fire and collected coins at the far end of the square, opposite to a trio of patient tarot readers with heavy-lidded, kohl-lined eyes.

Walking past the market stall, merchants clamor for your sole, undivided attention on either side of the aisle. All of their attempts evaporate like steam as Regis silently reappears and presses a swift kiss on your soft hair. He juggles a paper bag of fresh produce in one arm. “Here,” he says, and gives you a sweet. Its wax wrapper crinkles as it changes hands, a sound that reminds you of youth.

It reminds Regis of a name he’d once whispered in the same breath as ‘scapegrace’ and ‘fearless’.

“Angoulême was like taffy; childish, sweet, and she stuck to your side. Wholly loyal. She sought dangers because there was no other alternative to her life. The poor girl always managed to vex her friends and enemies. Sometimes, both at the same time. Even her future plans for a cabaret meant to subvert the quaintness of Toussaint.”

You chuckle at the ambitious thought, and so does he.

“But,” Regis adds, lacing his fingers with yours, “I think that she would learn to slow down and catch her breath. Angoulême learned the ropes of violence early in her life. She might have liked to retire early, too.”

* * *

“What can I say about our bard? He was as frank or eloquent as he wished. Master Dandelion is not meant to engage in violence; he is, however, the strongest contender when it comes to pen and paper, music, and camaraderie. I hope to hear him sing again, one day. And to see the look on his face, when he recognizes me!”


	4. v.&vi.

You wake Regis with a kiss on his forehead, and he mumbles sleepily. He blinks slowly at your visage by candlelight. “I need your help,” you whisper, and tug him from the comfortable bed. Bleary-eyed and yawning, Regis throws a shawl over his shoulders and follows you out into the misty, dew-streaked morning.

His puzzlement quickly turns into understanding. He sees the problem: a young raven with a crooked wing that drags along the ground. It flutters helplessly in the garden, squawking at the two of you. “Oh, my. What happened to your wing?” With some coaxing and a stern gaze, the raven tentatively toddles over to Regis, who gently scoops it up in his pale hands. “Come,” he whispers to the injured bird, “we shall have you flying in no time.”

As he tends to his new patient in the hearth of your home, the raven fusses, nevertheless remains still under Regis’s careful hands. You start to line a box with towels per his instructions, and glance up to see his adoring gaze and sharp smile. The corvid had the wholesome luck of being found by a vampire who loved ravens.

“You remind me of Cahir,” Regis says softly to the raven, stroking its glossy beak. “Broken fingers, broken wing. Hmm? Ever been to the far south?”

The raven croaks.

“Interesting.”

You sit down at the table and fold your arms. “Cahir? The Nilfgaardian?”

“Yes. The Nilfgaardian from Vicovaro.” Regis tilts his head. “I did not know much about him, and I have little to share. He was haunted in a world that cared little for dreams. There were societal obligations-- and then there was Cahir. He desperately fought the brand of being a soldier and traitor of the empire. I think, that he strived to be someone else entirely.”

“And in the end?”

Regis looks up at you.  “In the end? I like to think so. He might have felt the pull of destiny towards Stygga and the ashen-haired lass, more than any of us.”

* * *

You look up and over to the silver vampire, who lounges by the hearth. By the firelight, you spy delicate diagrams and drawings of the human body; you recognize the penciled sketch of your uneven shoulders which Regis often traces as you curl on your side of the bed.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, having sensed your hesitant gaze.

“Have you read this book I’m reading?  _The Last Wish_?”

Now, he pauses. “Yes. It was published only recently, if memory serves.” With the vampire, there was little point in questioning his mind. Regis asks, “What of it? Do you enjoy the author’s conversational tone? Or do you mean to ask about Geralt?” The name falls from his lips with practiced ease, but his voice cracks at the last moment.

You slip out from under the bed covers and go sit by him. Regis slips an arm around your shoulders, and you can now more clearly see his grimoire of herbs, medicine, and human curiosities. His herb-ridden aroma winds through your senses; it is inexplicably soothing.

“I hear so many rumors in the town market,” you says quietly, drawing your knees close. “Why don’t you go and find him?”

Regis’s shoulders tremble with a slight chuckle, or a sigh. “What shall I say? ‘ _Geralt, it’s been too long. Do you remember when I had been melted into an inexplicable sludge of stone and debris? It followed an excellent massacre at my own hands, though I am not eager to repeat--’_ ” He breaks off, and shakes his head. “It has been a while, and I have only just returned. I do not know if he grieved for me. So I can… I can afford to wait a few more years to summon my courage. Serendipity requires patience.”

“Serendipity requires shit-all,” you mumble, and he sighs (legitimately, you can tell this time). One of his hands rest on your leg; the other balances the journal.

“I know it may be difficult to believe, my dear, but even I have bouts of indecision.”

“Oh, no,” you say quickly. “I believe that.”

“Why, you--” Regis pretends to be offended. “You’re much too cheeky. Don’t think that all higher vampires will bow to your whims.” With his free hand, he drags you up for a quick kiss. His mouth is sharp and soft at the same time, and reveals just how much he wants to keep the past in the pages of a memoir. Regis hopes to distract, but it is in vain.

You reach up and stroke his cheek. “Regis,” you whisper. “The witcher mourned for you. Truly.”

“How do you know?” he asks, his black eyes tender and unsure.

“Because of the way you talk about him.” A small smile touches your lips. Conflicted emotions flit across the vampire’s face. Guilt. Apprehension. Longing. Regis knows your question, or rather, his truth. “You miss him.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Very, very much.”


	5. aces

“Regis.”

“Yes?”

“I...”

His black eyes slowly open, and meet your gaze. You smile, albeit nervously. You both are lying on your side, drowsing in the early morning, and he hesitantly reaches out to toy with one of your locks. “What are you thinking?” the vampire asks, his voice soft and low. He knows you well, too well, and can read the worry in your expression.

“I just wanted to say that I’m... I’m content with this.” You nervously twist your hands together until Regis slips his hands between yours, fingers interlacing and locking reassuringly. “I’m okay with  _ this _ .”

Regis searches your face for a long moment. And then he leans forward and kisses you gently on the forehead. “I know,” he says quietly, “and it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. I adore you, I really do, and I’m content with  _ you _ .”


	6. alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw mention of blood, scars  
> \---  
> back from four days of con (whew) but i'm also traveling next week, so updates might be sporadic

The path forward takes you and Regis to Dillingen, the home of a barber-surgeon who enjoyed the acute peace of the Cintran city. Regis owned a flat at the outskirts of the town. Although his winter home lacks fresh supplies, and you suggest visiting the local market, the vampire insists the importance of rest.

Together, you unlock his dusty lodgings, throw open the windows, replace the bedsheets, and light the hearth. You strip out of the muddy clothes and boots and bathe, with the occasional, interrupting kiss. After, he takes your hand and pulls you towards the bed. “Sit here,” Regis says as he kneels to examine your leg. His fingers flit over the peeling gauze, stripping it from the skin in a precise, practiced matter.

Hours earlier, both of you had been caught in a summer flash flood. Half a dozen families were traveling to the south, and bad luck caught a handful of folks in the initial surge. You, you had lost your footing and scraped your knees on the unforgivably rocky terrain. It was thanks to Regis and Drakuul’s steadfast strength that allowed you to cling white-knuckled to the worn saddle. Later, the vampire saw blood dripping from your leg and he’d immediately tended to the wound.

It looks like a long and wide gash, white and puckered around the edges. No blood to be seen. You grit your teeth as Regis now carefully cleans the cut. He wears a simple white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up vis-à-vis a surgeon. “How long will it take to heal?”

His voice is steady. “Less than a month. Time will tell, but it may leave a scar.”

You scowl. “Damn.”

“I know you hate scars. I’m sorry.”

Scars were always a reminder of what you could have done better. They were visible marks of your mistakes: if only you hadn’t picked up that shard of glass, or skipped through the briar patch in knee-high shorts. Flat streaks of old wounds, or bumpy, itchy keloids of recent endeavors were visible for the gawking world.

Regis wraps fresh gauze around the wound, and then he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your knee. “I’m sorry,” he says again, and just as sincerely. Though he kneels, the very look in his eyes--  _ warm and soulful _ \-- reminds you of why you might be in love with this vampire. One of his hesitant smiles flicker to life. “Would you be offended if I said that I like your scars?”

You feel your ears burning red. “No,” you tell him, “as long as you tell me why you could possibly like them.”

“Unlike blemishes we’re born with, such as moles and freckles, scars more often tell a story. Bravado, or anguish, or necessity. Regardless, it is all of mortal nature. Some of your kind will not stop until every inch of this bare body--”

Regis carefully runs his hand down your bandaged shin, effortlessly creating a charged, tense atmosphere.

“--is littered with devastating scars. And yet you live.”

His words settle with a sort of comfort. This short conversation could not miraculously fix the conflict in your mind, however, it was a welcome respite from the constant self-criticism. “Thank you,” you say quietly.

He smiles. “How does your leg feel?”

“It’s been better.” You tentatively stretch the limb, wincing as random twinges of pain run up and down your shin.

“Be careful,” Regis warns.

“Only if you kiss it better, vampire,” you retort.

Regis laughs and shakes his silver head. “Sorry, my love, but the notion is a placebo. It doesn’t really offer any sort of medicinal aid.” He barely manages to finish talking just when you cup his chin and drag his mouth upwards to meet yours. Then he returns the gesture, delving into a soft and tender kiss. Regis seems satisfied to leave words behind.

The moment turns into a minute, and then it’s not enough for either of you. Your hands seize the lapels of his coat. Regis slowly gets up, then fumbles to brace himself on the duvet on either side of you; his lean frame cages you as he falls across your body, never failing to break the kiss.

You focus elsewhere besides the sharp teeth scraping against your lip; you focus on the dreamy, dreary scent of cinnamon, or the way he tentatively cradles the small of your back. Regis doesn’t deserve any sort of reservation, not now and not from you. Not when you’re the one seeking reassurance from this centuries-old creature.

You hiss as his legs abruptly tangle with yours, causing a small bolt of pain to race up your leg. Regis recoils, but you don’t let him get far. “No, no,” you whisper, “I’m fine. I promise.”

Regis sighs slowly. “Still, we must be more careful,” he murmurs somewhat distractedly. The words take on a slow, stilted tone, as if he were trying to choose the right words. “We wouldn’t want to have that wound bleeding again. It might just convince me to indulge in some… hmm, as-of-yet  _ questionable  _ actions.” His teeth feel keener than ever against your lips.

“So says the vampire,” you tease breathlessly.

“So says the vampire,” Regis echoes.


	7. salt runes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: salt runes inspired by american gods. and while writing i liked the flow and premise of ‘young vampire failing miserably at mesmerizing local mortal bartender’.
> 
> this chapter is distant from canon, story, etc.  
> dont worry about it.

The man who called himself Emiel Regis cradles his Toussaint Red in one nimble hand, and idly traces strange, foreign symbols in spilt salt with the other. “Now, if you don’t mind me saying,” he announces as he stares at his half-filled wineglass, “I think we would make for a rather good time.”

Now he looks up, past those thick, ink-black locks, and fixes his gaze with his just-as-dark eyes. He’s not smiling. Regis gave up trying to charm you with coy smiles about six months ago. 

“Only good?” You shake your head, and pace along the counter, always mindful of the wine bottles and kegs lining the shelves. Being in charge of the booze had power when it came to the drinking holes of the rich, green countryside of Beauclair. You grab a towel from a rack and flick it towards Regis. “Go home, Emiel. You’re drunk.”

“I’m really not,” he says.

“Yes, you are. Maybe not from the Red, but you’ve got that puppy-love look in your eyes,” you point out firmly, “And you won’t stop sulking until you leave and realize  _ home _ is better than  _ here _ .”

Regis laughs, then finishes the rest of his drink. He crooks a finger at you. “Let me tell you a story.” The Toussaint language rolls off his tongue with ease, though it is evident that he hails from elsewhere; the young man’s accent is clear, but impossible to trace. You think, perhaps he comes from lands beyond the map drawn in your books.

“All right.”

He gestures to the salt on the bar counter. “Do you see this? Once upon a time and through a veil, I saw how these symbols knitted an unspoken charm to do my bidding. Even with something as seemingly mundane as table salt, I find my magic.” It seems as if Regis’s charm instead threads through his coarse voice, or the way his eyes glitter in candlelight.

His right hand traces on the back of yours, drawing the same, strange symbols upon skin, though Regis’s concentration crumbles when a few tipsy, loud-mouthed clients stumble through the door and make their way downstairs to join their friends. You draw away, not entirely missing the way his eyes glimmer with disappointment.

“I like your stories. I really do.” Regis gazes at you, hopelessly, but you can’t offer anything to him but his tab. You take his empty glass and set it with the rest of the dishes. “Emiel, darling, do you need anything else for the night?”

“No, darling,” he says, echoing the endearment. “Just you.”

“Tell me,” you say finally, placing hands on your hips, “Out of all the people in here, why would you choose the bartender? Again, and again?” It’s not like you haven’t seen Regis walk out in arms with a young fellow or bird (though you don’t see them again at your establishment), but he doesn’t have that dopey, dumb look on his face.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Regis replies wistfully. “Perhaps you’re too full of guile, and that interests me. You make for good company, regardless the location.” His black eyes once again glower, however accompanied by another emotion besides familiar infatuation. “I could have you, you know. All it would take is a little salt.”

No, the salt is merely a means of distraction. As he gestures to the counter, it seizes your attention. Then he coaxes your eyes upward to level with that hungry, or avaricious look in his eyes. Whatever magic Regis has, it’s in his gaze and that closed smile.

You look away to the candlelight and focus instead on the flickering flames. “You think it would be enough?”

“More than enough.” Regis drags his fingers through the salt, either cancelling or completing his faux spell. “Care to see if it’s true?”

“Ever the gentlemen, asking before you cast a love spell.”

“I am not a gentleman, darling, but I  _ am _ asking.”

You come round the counter and take the seat next to Regis. He draws himself up, a little too quickly, startled by the interruption in the flirtatious routine. Now you can study the purplish shadows that rim his eyes, and the slow, unhurried rise and fall of his chest. He doesn’t look like a man; he doesn’t look like anything or anyone you had ever seen before.

You take a pinch of salt and rub the grains between your thumb and forefinger. The dark-haired customer watches your every move very closely. “Hmm. Like I said, I like your stories. You believe that they’re real. If only magic were real, too.”

He gently grabs your wrist before you can pull away.

Ever so slowly, and ever so carefully, Emiel Regis kisses the tips of your salt-crusted fingers and pulls back. He wets his lips; you catch a glimpse of sharp canines but they're gone in an instant. “Was that your spell?” you ask him, heart hammering in your chest.

“No,” Regis says. “That was yours.”


	8. jester

“So,” the vampire says with an amused smirk, running a nail along his tankard, “the news about a local forktail terrifies you more than the thought of katakans or ekimmaras? What is it about vampires that enthralls you?”

You decline to answer his second question. You say matter-of-factly, “The forktail is decidedly one of the more hazardous consequences of living further from a central city. However, a vampire much prefer dense human populations. I imagine they would refrain from hunting a sole individual living in the middle of the woods.

His black eyes glitter. “Are you sure about that?”

Your words stutter to a halt. “Regis,” you manage to hiss, your ears burning at the sight of his barely-restrained smile, “do you jest?”

Regis takes a draft of his drink, smiles again, and instantly becomes the same aged, silver soul that you know and cherish. “As a higher, I do,” he says softly. He speaks low, given the public setting. The two of you had sought warm drinks and food at the local tavern. It was a refreshing break from the routine of foraging, gardening, and lounging in each other’s’ arms. “Forgive me. The humor was in poor taste.”

“Yes, well, it could be refreshing to hear a joke from one so usually stoic.”

“Should I redouble my efforts in the future?”

“Gods, no.”

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Do not fret,” Regis says warmly, “I will refrain for the evening. I must add, however, It is unlikely for a forktail to attack near civilization, and even more unlikely to have it ruin our evening.”

You reach across the table and wind your fingers with his. His strange, ancient ring digs into the flesh of your palm, but you’ve learned to memorize it with the weathered texture of his hands. Regis had once whispered the name of the vampire who’d gifted it to him, but the name fades from your memory. “Promise to slay the dragon if it wakes us in the middle of the night?” you ask.

“Do you think me a knight-errant?” His smile is the one reserved for public spaces: closed, hidden behind his pale lips, and only truly evident in the crow’s feet lining his eyes.

“You are far from virtuous, Emiel.”

The vampire gasps. "How can this be? Such words pierce my honor."

"Oh, hush," you tease, and he can't help but drop the act and chuckle. "You know that I adore you, virtue or none."


	9. *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ah please be aware, this is not a happy chapter but i'll publish something soft soon, i promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: the author is,,,, depressed wink wonk
> 
> tw depression, terrible feelings overall

He can taste the salt in the air.

And it’s--

It’s thoroughly unlike the ocean front, which stains the horizon with a dreary color, or crashes against crumbling cliffs, flecking acrid foam on clothes and skin. The smell of the ocean is coupled with powerful winds, the sort that summon siren lullabies.

But salt in the air doesn’t remind Regis of blood, either; it’s not as brackish or warm or soothing. It doesn’t let his hunger descend. This scent is too watery, too fleeting, and tears don’t quite pollute the soul the same way that murder does (close, but not quite).

Regis shuts his eyes shut and wills away the thirst. He takes another deep breath.

Your own breathing is steady, for now. He knows that it’s not a promise, not with the way your thoughts have been wrestling with your ego, or the mind with heart. Regis knows this salt-stained air on occasion. It’s been some time since you faltered in this marathon of blank faces and dry eyes. He can’t remember when you last collapsed under the invisible sickness that lives in your marrow, your pulse, your smile--

You suddenly sit up in bed and cover your face with shaking hands, and you let out a desperate, heartwrenching sob that seems to consume any semblance of calm--

_There it is._

Regis sits up, too, because that’s the least he can do. He threads his hands through yours, so you don’t rip out your scalp. You whisper your newfound frustration, coined revelation.

“Everything is temporary. Nothing lasts forever. What’s the point of anything? What’s the _point_?”

There is no middle ground, there is no goddamn god to keep the scales balanced. Most of the time, you’re barely keeping afloat in waves of blatant indifference; and when swamped with the sensations of _too much_ or _too_ fucking _much_ , you can’t wish for anything but oblivion. Right now, you _crave_ that emptiness.

You usually find relief in screaming your lungs out, except it’s past midnight and you would hate for the neighbors to worry.

The vampire rocks you gently in his arms, trying to calm the tempest in your mind. He wants to tell you that he is here for you; that he believes that your pain will ease; and that he loves you for surviving for another second, another ten seconds, another thirty seconds in this world.

Maybe, maybe he whispers this as your breath rattles and your tears dry on his cotton shirt. But maybe you won’t remember.

So Regis lays back down with you, and he closes his eyes, waiting, waiting until exhaustion overwhelms sorrow. “It’s okay,” he murmurs as the pain slowly slithers back to your marrow, your pulse, and your smile. “It’s going to be okay.”


	10. avowed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: back to your regularly scheduled content as promised
> 
> dialogue taken from the pitifully sparse [chapter five](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521672/chapters/31050039)

He’s close; much closer than he’d ever been in the past.

“Regis. Regis?”

Drunk on your presence, his onyx black eyes slowly but eventually find you. “...yes, dear?” he murmurs as he lightly scrapes your outstretched wrist with his fangs. A shiver ripples down your spine. Regis doesn’t hide the smirk; tonight, he knows the way your body trembles under him.

“Does this make me part of your pack?”

Regis pauses for a moment, as if he’s only gathering the gravity of the situation. Sharing a bed. Skin against skin. Your legs pressed against his shoulders, his hands on your waist, and--

“Oh God,” he murmurs, arching his slender brows, “I hope not.” You howl with laughter, thoroughly thrilled by his tone of voice and expression. The vampire tickles the inside of your thigh until you beg him to stop. “If you are in want of a serious answer, then I will assure that it does not. Being part of a vampire’s pack is no tryst. We often have mortal lovers, but no mortal could understand what it means to be bloodbound.”

“Tell me,” you demand, and the well-known erudite twinkle enters his dark gaze.

“Well,” he begins, setting his chin and palms against your tummy as you lazily card through his fine hair, “the most obvious trait is that of longevity. Then comes the depth of the bond. You might remember your father and his father. However, memory fades after one or two generations and the veneration of ancestors becomes a task without emotion. Vampires do not simply respect their elders. We obey them without thinking about the consequences of our own, and of others.

“That is something I could not share with you,” Regis says firmly. “Nor would I want to. What I feel for you…”

He pushes himself up and the quilted blanket slips from his lean frame, pooling around your tangled legs as he crawls forward and sets a soft, full kiss against your lips. His satisfied sigh echoes around the cramped, cozy home. You tilt your head and delve deeper, and he returns the favor with a fervor that loses none of its tenderness.

“Emiel,” you whisper, smiling against his kisses. “Were you going to finish talking?”

“Mmm. In a moment. I just…” Regis sneaks one more taste, then leans back and opens his eyes. The vampire can’t help the way his eyes mesmerize but you are content to gaze at him. His fingers entwine with yours. “What I feel for you is so much older than those elders are or ever could be. An-- an emotion that clearly existed in both of our worlds before they even crashed into each other. And I believe there are a thousand and one ways to show how much I care, but sometimes, I’ve an overwhelming desire to say--

“--that I am absolutely, _incredibly_ in love with you, and I love you.”


	11. love story

The vampire suddenly materializes from thin air, crashing into the heavy bookshelves and knocking over a chair. “No, no,” he pants, waving a hand in your direction, “I’ll be fine.”

He staggers forward and you stretch your arms out to catch him-- only for Regis to flicker into ash-gray mist, passing through your body like a winter chill. You whirl around in time to see his corporeal form struggle to knit together. You watch him compose himself, willfully and physically, and he sprawls in front of the fireplace. You kneel next to him.

Besides being completely out of breath, his pupils are blown and he seems to have trouble focusing on your face. “I hadn’t expected… flying to be so taxing after a few months,” he wheezes. “I could hardly ascend a few hundred feet when I plummeted head-first and lost all my bearings.” Regis blinks a few times. “I wager the concussion is fading, but my great embarrassment will take much longer to recede.”

“I wish I could have seen you,” you remark, unable to help a grin that stretches ear-to-ear.

“Ah, I was a frightful excuse for a vampire.” Regis presses your hands to his weathered lips. “Are you cold?” he asks after a moment’s thought, and starts to warm them between his gloved ones.

“I thought you couldn’t feel temperature."

Regis traces the life line, then the heart line etched in the hands that often hold him. He places a soft kiss on the inside of your palm. “It’s true,” he admits. “Therefore I take the context clues whenever I am able. Should there be a wonderful blush across your cheeks and chest, I might assume your temperature and pulse have risen. And when your fingers have slower reflexes from poor circulation, you are likely in need of warmth.

“However,” Regis adds, “I’ve been previously confounded by your heartbeat. Your hands may be cold while your pulse races. I can see it here, in the radial artery.” He taps your wrists and then reaches up to graze against your neck as you stifle a shiver. “Moreso, the carotid artery. There might be a rhyme and reason behind such as it’s decidedly easier to-- ah, to drink from the arteries. Blood is less acidic and higher pressure flow, and so forth.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did you learn that as a surgeon or a vampire?”

He smiles briefly. “The answer might surprise you."

“I don’t doubt it.” You lean down and kiss him, loving the way he arches up to follow your lips as you pull back.

Regis finally sits up and rolls the stiffness out of his neck, black eyes half-closed and hidden under long lashes. You only notice now that his frock is unbuttoned and askew, and there’s mud caked under his sharp nails. The longer you gaze at him, the more he seems to come apart once more, dissolving at his edges.

“You must excuse my manners,” Regis says, voice low and unsteady. “There is less pain, I think, without a body. It will take some time to regain my senses.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” He glances at you, and the gentle look in his eyes is enough for you to muster some courage. You reach out a careful hand and set it against his cheek-- this time, he remains solid as he closes his eyes and leans into your touch.

“I wish it were that simple.” He sighs. “You are too kind-- and so, so unforgivably unafraid of me. It besets and defies reason. I must be a wretched example of a higher vampire to continue living in smoke and mirrors.” The vampire falls silent. His contour shifts warily. Regis is not often speechless, but the moment stretches into a minute.

“Emiel,” you murmur. “Let’s go to bed. We can talk in the morning. We’ll sit outside and count the morning dew, and listen to the world wake up.”

He doesn’t move.

"What are you thinking?"

“Tell me,” Regis says, “What good did I ever accomplish to deserve a fraction of your life?”

You lean forward and kiss his cheek, then wrap your arms around him. “I might not be so eloquent with my words, but I think that what we are, or what we share-- has the chance to _be_ something good.”

He slowly curls his fingers in your hair. “A chance?” he echoes tentatively.

“It does not come without effort.” You pull back and as always, seek his lips for a kiss that chases away the last of the feathery wisps in the pale firelight. “Nor without rewards or setbacks. In the end, let our love be something good and lasting and worth fighting for.”

Regis sets his forehead against yours. “Where do we begin?” he asks.


End file.
